


Patience & Fortitude

by completetheory



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Nonbinary Character, Original Character-centric, Other, Post-Canon Fix-It, Spoilers, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/pseuds/completetheory
Summary: Prince LaCroix & faithful fledgling Sunday Latimore opened the sarcophagus. Mistakes were made.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Original Character(s), Sebastian LaCroix/Original Nosferatu Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Patience & Fortitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadScientific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/gifts).



The explosion sent a shockwave through the downtown area, and broken glass rained down on the city. Spectators reported that they felt the blast in their chests, but on the hundredth floor of the LaCroix Foundation building, the vibrations were... considerably worse.

Fortitude, not Domination, was the calling card of Prince Sebastian LaCroix, heeding too well the words of her Sire - that Domination was necessary only for the convincing of mortals, but a true leader could survive the treachery of their enemies only through endurance. Even so, the young Ventrue was in a bad condition, buried under several tons of rubble and badly burned enough to be almost unrecognizable.

Incredibly, the _fledgling_ was not in torpor. Defined primarily through Los Angeles’ inability to kill them, they crawled out from under the twisted rebar, knowing enough to be warier of wooden debris, and squinted through the smoke. Still young enough to breathe - instinctively, not a feint for mortals - Sunday coughed, crouched low, and began to excavate their Prince from the wreckage. 

Loyal to the end. 

Prince LaCroix was unresponsive, but light enough in Sunday’s arms, and as the elevator was probably out of commission, the fledgling Nosferatu took the stairs. Fire alarms rang in their ears, and the sprinkler system came to life with the sluggish disregard of technology designed for lesser feats than extinguishing terrorism. 

The one thing Sunday appreciated out of all this was that they had never liked Smiling Jack much. Even with their loping speed, it was a trial of some minutes to descend even to a fourth of the building, and a glimpse of the city outside told Sunday that emergency services were already responding. 

Sunday was well-used to avoiding mortal attention, and knew that no help could be given to Sebastian by the kine hospitals, if they could be convinced it was possible to survive that explosion. Therefore, the Nosferatu ducked out to the food-court floor at the earliest opportunity and hid from the angels of mercy clad in firefighting gear. 

Sebastian’s stoic Sheriff, Jawara, had not been in the room when they had opened the sarcophagus, and was likely somewhere else in the building. The Nagloper was an old hand at the Masquerade, but being Nosferatu, Sunday was already automatically thinking like a Camarilla operative. Which aspects of the self could be hidden? Which parts were unsafely revealed? How could this hand be salvaged, when folding was not an option? 

The sewer system cloaked Sunday with the protection it granted every member of their clan, and they barely felt the chill, seeking the higher ground of the service walkways whenever possible while trying to decide what to do. 

Nines and the sanctuary of the Last Round was out. Sunday hadn’t abandoned or alienated the Anarchs, but neither had the Nosferatu allied with them. Now that Nines Rodriguez was dead, as far as Sunday knew, there was less hope for things changing between the Anarchs and the Camarilla.

In an ideal world, the two could be reconciled into a functional unit, together, with the Camarilla’s infrastructure sheltering the Anarchs and the Anarchs’ uncompromising pursuit of truth keeping the Camarilla honest. Or as honest as any human-descended species could be. But Rodriguez had felt a lot more calm and reachable than some of the others. 

For tactical retreats, Santa Monica was the obvious choice, but Sunday didn’t know what to do from there. Tung might be hard to find on short notice, and they hadn’t visited Knox at home, so they found themself ringing on Mercurio’s doorbell only half an hour before sunrise.

The ghoul answered promptly, and ushered them both in, sucking in a quiet breath at his visitors’ condition.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” Sunday admitted, “Is it - Final Death?” 

“Doubt it.” Mercurio took the inert body of his boss, laying it on the couch so recently cleaned of his own bloodstains. “When Kindred die proper, I hear, all the decay their bodies would’ve been through before catches up to them. LaCroix’s too old to still be intact like this. This is ‘torpor’. It’s... kinda like a healing coma. Sunday, what the fuck happened? You don’t look great yourself.” 

“I’m fine. I think.” Sunday became aware of several gashes and the pain from broken ribs, and focused blood to those areas, as the tide of adrenaline receded. “How long will the coma last?” 

“I’m not an expert.” Mercurio drew close to the charred corpse, considering, “Blood would help. Your blood would help more, actually, but you probably need it to--” 

_Heal yourself_ , Mercurio was about to say, but Sunday looked so intensely at him that he stopped. “Let’s get a drip goin’.” He showed Sunday the contents of a small locked briefcase - an IV bag, a long plastic tube, and a modified spinal needle. 

Wordlessly, Sunday allowed Mercurio to drain them of several bags of rich vital essence, and remained seated, woozy, while the ghoul injected the Prince - directly into her ventricular chamber, between her ribs. Once he was satisfied the blood was flowing from the tube into the Prince’s heart, he opened his own vein for Sunday.

“Here.” 

Unaware of any social conventions about submissive blood drinking posture, Sunday gratefully lapped at Mercurio’s wrist to replenish some of what they’d given, and then sank back into the chair, unable to keep from looking worriedly over at the Kindred on the couch. LaCroix’s lack of breathing was really tripping out Sunday’s still-human brain, she just looked _deceased._ Whenever Sunday had seen her before, she’d been such a high profile human that she had mastered the art of looking alive. She had blinked, her chest rose and fell with more than just the words she’d spoken... 

“I need to get in touch with Chunk and Jawara.” LaCroix’s only real trustworthy followers, besides Mercurio, and - Sunday suspected - Bertram Tung, who spoke of the Camarilla and the Ventrue in glowing terms. 

“You’re gonna wanna talk to Tung, then.” Mercurio noted, “You have a burner cell phone number for him? I can do it while you’re resting.”

Sunday’s glance around the room betrayed some concern that it was unsafe, and Mercurio continued, “It’s Elysium in here. The only people who can start shit are the ones who were designated Keepers. That’s blood-enforced, not honor bound. Don’t worry.” 

The Nosferatu closed their eyes, wearily, and tried to take that advice. Don’t worry? LaCroix was badly hurt, and Smiling Jack was out there somewhere, plotting to murder kindred, destabilize regions, and bring about Gehenna, literally. He had to be stopped. He was as bad, if not worse than Xiao, who Sunday had killed with little stirring of conscience. 

In these last few weeks, the thirty-something had brought low many individuals who they considered incapable of compromise. Ming Xiao, the unapologetic Pisha, Andrei... twice now, so perhaps the Tzimisce had managed to skirt Final Death a second time. And the Plaguebearers, who were disinterested in much outside causing inexplicable harm. If it had been possible to banish the ghost in the Ocean House Hotel, Sunday would have done that too, but at least they’d helped the ghost of the murdered woman. 

Oh, and that werewolf. That had been privately terrifying. 

Smiling Jack’s murder was not outside the bounds of Sunday’s abilities, nor truthfully outside their desire, and that desire mounted every time they saw the Ventrue on the couch unmoving. 

Mercurio hung up, concluding the conversation with Tung. “He’s on his way over. Anything else I can get for you?” 

Sunday willed the blood to knit flesh, to repair shattered bone, visualizing the cells of the marrow interlocking. As soon as they could manage it, they stood, but they didn’t push to leave Mercurio’s Elysium. The priority, even stronger than vengeance, was protecting the injured Prince.

“Hey.” Mercurio knew how Sunday looked at this point, how to read the twisting expressions of their aardwolf jaw. “It’s gonna be ok, Sunny.” 

“Do you think so?” Sunday looked up at the doorbell, too fast to disguise anxiety, but it was Tung, and looking more sympathetic than Sunday had ever seen him. He evaluated the setup with the IV approvingly, no medical professional himself but old enough to know what was helpful _generally_ to their kind. 

“Good work.” He praised the ghoul, tipping LaCroix’s head back, tracing the large vein in her neck with a blunted claw. Under the slight stimulus, it throbbed just once, barely noticable. To an outsider, LaCroix was as dead a corpse as any, but that involuntary vampiric reflex spoke volumes. 

Tung took a seat, watching Sunday pace. “Torpor’s a funny thing,” He said after a few moments, “It’s hard to predict, but from what I’ve seen, the Kindred with a cleaner conscience tend to wake easier.”

“I need someone to watch her.” Sunday didn’t quite ask, but they looked hopeful. 

“While you hare off and execute Smiling Jack?” Bertram shook his head. “You’re not in any condition to go anywhere, cupcake. And Jack knows explosions alone violate the Masquerade, and concerted efforts to kill high-ranking Kindred earn Final Death. Ten minutes after the Tower went up, and he’d had a chance to admire his Sabbat-style handiwork, he was hitting the city limits. You won’t find him, and he won’t be back.” 

“I hate him.” Sunday sharpened one claw against the similarly serrated malice of their front teeth.

Tung chuckled. “You’re not the only one. Jeremy MacNeil doesn’t much like him either, and he’s been the poster boy for Anarch rebellion longer than Nines Rodriguez. The problem is that most young, stupid Anarchs _love_ that whole ‘kill any Kindred I want any time I want’ thing. They don’t understand the value of discretion among humans - or compromise among Kindred - because most Anarchs pass for human too easy. They don’t stand to lose as much as we do if we’re caught and exposed, so they don’t see the necessity of the Camarilla, either... and they don’t even like to listen to their _own_ Elders.” 

It made an irritating kind of sense. Sunday crouched beside their fallen Prince, curbing the nervous pacing with effort. They was a Nosferatu of action, but they could see why it might be fruitless to leave with murder on their mind. 

“Stay here with LaCroix.” Tung advised, dialing, “I’m going to inform the relevant parties - Strauss, Golden, and the Sheriff, if I can figure out where he went. With Nines gone to ground, the Anarchs won’t capitalize, at least... and Ming’s dead, so the Kuei-Jin are gonna be taking a pause, too.” 

“Wait... Nines isn’t dead?” Sunday stopped short, looking up, “But, the werewolf--?” 

“Nines is in Hollywood right now. _Nobody_ is in Hollywood who I don’t know about.” Tung winked at Sunday, “Sure, it was a pretty bad scene, but Nines doesn’t need as much help as LaCroix does right now. She’s depending on you.” 

The sun was rising outside, but the windows and curtains were excellent proof against the damaging rays. Mercurio offered Tung the run of the place, and Sunday too, but the fledgling stayed by their Prince all day, dozing there in daysleep with their head pillowed on the couch arm. 

The next evening, the skin on LaCroix’s hands and feet was already beginning to regrow, knitting soft muscle over blackened bony tips. Her eyes opened and she pushed against the couch, getting nowhere, but the spasms making it obvious she was trying to sit up. 

“It’s okay, my Prince. You’re safe.” Sunday coaxed, “Tung is here. Mercurio is here. You’re in Santa Monica.” 

The rattling breath from LaCroix’s throat evened out, gradually, and she closed her eyes again, taking several minutes. She said something, but Sunday couldn’t hear what it was.

“What?” The Nosferatu leaned in, protectively hunching over her.

“...wunderkind...” 

Sunday beamed, for once utterly unselfconscious of their graveyard's worth of teeth. "Everything will be taken care of, my Prince."


End file.
